On the Outside Looking In
by Country
Summary: REVISED VERSION OF CH 6. Shocking, I know. Sketch, a young runaway, is caught up in the case of the Major Case Squad. Implied BA.
1. The Watcher

Disclaimer: Don't own Goren or Eames. So far, only own the characters of Sketch and Nicky.

A/N: First LO:CI fic, so please review!

People are fascinating. It's amazing what you can learn from simply watching body language. The flick of a wrist. The turn of a head. The wave of a hand. The shift in posture. They all tell you something about a person and even who they are with. As an artist, such details are the fodder for many a sketch, which is what draws me to Central Park every day. It is here that people from all walks of life gather. Old and young, fat and slim, mothers and fathers, single and married. It doesn't matter. They can all be found in the Park, especially in good weather. It's so strange. New York is the city that never sleeps. People always rushing about, and the sidewalks are often crammed full of people heading in one direction or another. Yet here, in the park, you forget where you are, and tranquility can be attained. Let me tell you, that kind of peace is only fleeting for hardcore runaways like me. It makes me feel. . . well. . .normal. No one notices a sixteen-year-old sitting on a bench reading a book or drawing. No one stops and stares at a teenager playing chess at the Chess and Checkers House or laying on the grass, enjoying the sun. It is times like that I feel like I belong. . .like I'm just like you or anyone else. An illusion, I know, but it's nice to feel that way every once in a while.

Now, that has changed, and the serenity I usually find here has been shattered by one unmistakable event, an incident that has prompted a section of the park to be cordoned off with yellow "Caution" tape and has invited a swarm of cops to invade the place I have irrationally come to think of as my safe haven. From my hiding place behind a nearby tree, I had watched them arrive and had seen the tape go up, and I have not been able to pull my eyes away since. As close as I was, I could hear the whispers of the crowd and even the rookie cops, so I knew who they had found. It was Jonathan Robinson, the newest up-and-coming stockbroker whose face graced the cover of every business magazine available in the vendor booths.

I watched with interest as the detectives arrived on the scene. One, a petite woman, walked over, pulling a pad and pen out of the pocket of her jeans. I suppose, she had been called back to duty; it was a Friday night after all. Her partner, a large man with black hair, stared at her back for a few seconds, making me wonder if perhaps he found her backside appealing. Shaking his head, the bulky, six foot Detective Hulk, as I had come to think of him, snapped on his gloves and walked straight to the body. He knelt next to it, seemingly careful not to disturb evidence or to get blood on his black jeans. Seems he, too, had been off duty.

I watched in trepidation as he continued his examination. He walked around the body, examining it from every possible angle. He even leaned in and smelled it. Apparently this was nothing new because his partner simply squatted next to him and began talking to him. A slight wind picked up, causing me to shiver and huddle closer into my large jeans jacket and oversized sweatshirt. I glanced warily up at the sky, hoping it wouldn't rain or, worse, snow tonight, but it's February so what can I expect, right? It was then I heard her say, "A couple found him. ME estimates time of death was about an hour ago. Apparently, Mr. Robinson is a regular jogger here and always buys a hot dog at that vendor over there." My eyes followed her finger, spotting the back of a man walking with one of the boy's dressed in blue. "Mr. Rossi said he saw Mr. Robinson arguing with a young guy a couple of days ago. They're taking him down to get him with a sketch artist."

I remembered that meeting well. Robinson had been indignant, shoving my sketches into my chest. "I know who you are, _Sketch_!" He yelled, emphasizing the street name I had taken upon coming to New York. A new name for a new place. It had made sense at the time. "Didn't I make it clear the last time I saw you! We don't want you in our lives, so just stay the hell away from Nicky! Stay away from my son!" He had stormed off then.

The deep voice of Detective Hulk pulled me from my thoughts, and I saw him gently turn Robinson's head and point at something there. "He was hit from behind. Throat cut, and a stab wound in the stomach." With a sinking feeling, I watched as his gloved hand turned the body slightly and pointed to something. "Another in his back."

Bile rose in my throat, and I swallowed it down as dread filled my soul. He was back. I had known he was out; it was the reason I had come to New York in the first place. The blood rushed to my head, and I knew I couldn't stay there any more. I slipped through crowd that had gathered and left the park in a hurry. I had to know. I had to know Nicky was okay. He would go there next. It was the only logical choice; his game was nearing completion. I had to protect Nicky. After all, he was my family too, no matter what Jonathan had said.


	2. Family Duty

Disclaimer: I am a poor, starving graduate student, so please don't sue. I don't own the characters of Robert Goren or Alexandra Eames.

Spoilers: None really. Slight mention of F.P.S. (That's the last one with Bishop, right? If it's not, that's the one that's briefly mentioned.)

A/N: Thanks so much to all of you who have reviewed. It means a lot to me! I'll try to update every week or so, but it will really depend on my homework load and, of course, your responses.

I've got ideas for the next couple of chapters, but would love your input. Would you like to hear someone else perspective, perhaps Bobby's? If not, let me know. If so and you would like to propose a perspective, also let me know. Either way, I'd love to hear from you! Anyway, here's chapter two. It has not gone through beta so I apologize for any errors.

Chapter 2: Family Duty

Walking through the aisles of the New York Public Library, I reverently trailed my hands across the bindings of the books aligned there. Breathing deeply, I savored the scent that permeated the air. Escape. That was the one word I associated with places like this. Ever since I had taught myself to read at the age of three, the writings of such literary heroes as Dickens, Emerson and Wells had been my constant companions. They held the wonder of alternatives and had allowed me to forget the woes of my own life. Once on the streets, libraries had also served as a shelter from the weather, pushers and perverts, not necessarily in that order. Many a time, I had found a way to hide from the security guards after closing; indeed, I had become quite the expert at finding ways to stay for throughout the night.

With a sigh, I sat back down and picked up one of the newspaper clippings strewn across my table. Its headline screamed, "Video Game Creator Imprisoned". It was only one of many. "One More for the Team with the Highest Solve Rate." "Detective's Unorthodox Methods Proven Effective." "Psychology Solves Case". Such were the items I had been staring at for the last few hours. It seemed there was no end in sight to the love the media had for Robert Goren and Alexandra Eames, the two detectives I had seen at Jonathan's crime scene on Friday.

Considering the media's affection for them, it hadn't been long before news had spread of their involvement in the case, providing me with a place to start my research on the duo. _And what a pair they are_, I thought as I rubbed my burning eyes before selecting the transcript of previous court cases worked by the two of them. Gotta love the internet. With a little know how, you can gain access to anything you want. Perhaps that was how _he_ had finally found the Robinsons. After all, they were a pretty high-profile family, and that fact could very well have been their downfall, especially for the youngest member of the family. Agony filled my soul as I recalled the most recent nightmare to plague my psyche: Nicky kept calling for me while struggling against a monster. Shaking to clear the image from my head, my brain focused upon the thought of Nicky, one of the only innocents left in the mess. A smile crossed my face as I remembered seeing him on Friday.

I had stood at the door of the Robinson household, debating with myself. I knew I had to see Nicky, but I really didn't want to run the risk of running into Maria, his mother. At that time of night, she could arrive at any moment, but the urge to see Nicky had been too much, forcing me to ring the doorbell.

My ears had picked up the sound of footsteps approaching the door, and I released a breath of relief when I heard a familiar voice cautiously ask, "Who is it?"

"Kel, it's me!" I had whispered urgently.

The door had swung open to reveal a plump woman in her forties. The dimpled smile on the face of Kelly, my friend and Nicky's nanny, had faded as soon as she saw my face. "Sketch?

What are you doing here?" she had asked with a worried frown.

"I need to see Nicky," I explained, looking past her towards the stairway I knew would lead me to his room.

"Kid, it's way past his bedtime. You know that," she had scolded, a look of concern on her face.

"I know," I had said with a sigh, shifting my backpack on my shoulder. "I just need to see. . . I won't wake him up, I promise. I just. . .I just need to see that he's okay. Please, Kel." I had given her my best puppy dog look, knowing it was just the thing to get her to cave.

She had sighed, a sure sign that she was about to give in. "All right, but if you wake him up, you won't be seeing us tomorrow."

Relief had made my knees weak. For a moment, I had been truly afraid that she would refuse me. "I understand," I had whispered.

Without a sound, I had made my way to Nicky's room and pushed the slightly ajar door open. I silently made my way to his bed and stared at him. The shine from his night-light illuminated his small features and gave his blonde head an angelic glow. My heart constricted at the thought of anything happening to him. I knew that I would do anything in my power to stop him from getting hurt, especially because of me."Hey, bud. I just wanted you to know that I'll always protect you." I could hear the conviction in my voice. I ignored the voice in my mind voicing my doubts about whether I could slay this particular monster.

My gait had hesitated slightly at the sight of Kelly in the doorway, the hallway light shining on the very concerned look on her face and cups of hot chocolate in her hand. As soon as I saw the cup, I knew she would demand to know what was wrong. It had been over a cup of hot chocolate that I had explained to her the connection between Nicky and I. She was the only person in this city that knew about me, so with a slight nod, I signaled my understanding.

We had made our way to Kelly's room; this and Nicky's room were the only places that I felt welcome in this mausoleum the Robinsons called a "home". I plopped down on the window seat, and she handed me my cup before sitting in her favorite armchair.

Noticing the massive plate of food she had made for me, I protested, "Thanks. You didn't have to do that." The slight ache in my stomach made a liar out of me, for it had been a few days since I had had one of Kel's culinary delights.

"Well, someone has to give you decent food," she huffed. I had started to protest, but stopped when she raised her hand. "Besides, when was the last time you had a good meal?" She shot me a glare. "And fast food, hot dogs, ice cream and the other cheap crap that's available doesn't count."

I had opened my mouth to protest but, knowing she was right, I gave up with a shrug. "Fine, but were you planning on feeding an army?"

If the prideful smile she shot my way was any indication, I knew she saw right through me. Like always. I rolled my eyes and started to dig in.

Pointing to my NYU sweatshirt, she noted, "Been raiding the mission give away again, I see."

"Had to." I gave her a wry smile. "It's been cold as hell."

She nodded, a concerned look temporarily creasing her face. "Glad to see you're taking care of yourself."

"Always."

She took a sip from her cup. "So how's the job going? Still washing dishes down at Angie's?"

I shrugged. "Sometimes."

I'm not what you call a great conversationalist. I've been a loner most of my life, so common social interaction remains a bit of a mystery.But Kel's what you call persistent, so she forged ahead with her interrogation. "Pay still crappy?"

"I get by."

I knew she wanted to push me again about improving my situation, but I shot her a warning look, which she acknowledge with a nod.

That night, I hadn't been in the mood for our usual debate about my life. I knew the system, and the system sucks. Without being emancipated, I really didn't have a choice. No money equals no lawyer. No lawyer means no one to argue on my behalf. I've been to legal aide, and the worthless lawyer told me to get a job and come back. Some help, huh? No wonder he's not working for one of the large firms. So without a job, I can't get emancipated, and without a decent paying job, I can't get a good place to live. Angie's a great place, but it's not stable employment; they only need me when business is heavy, which because of the weather, isn't right now. Besides, the manager there is a bastard. He only pays what he wants to, and I can't argue because I need the cash. So even if it is less than I was promised, I have to take it in order to buy food. Can't live on hand-outs forever. I've come up with other ways to supplement my income, not the least of which is selling my sketches.

After I had wolfed down the meal, she stated, "All right. Spill," she demanded, and, after taking a sip of my hot chocolate, I described for her all I had seen tonight. She was concerned and worried about Nicky, and I had understood her where she was coming from.

Taking a sip of my hot chocolate, I swore. "I swear, Kel, I'll do whatever I have to to make sure he's safe. There's no way in hell that I'll let that monster get anywhere near him."

She had given me a sad smile. "I know you won't, but who will protect you?"

"I do fine on my own," I told her, trying to not to show any fear or lack of confidence. One thing you learn on the streets is how to portray a tough façade. "Anyway, I best get out of here before the witch returns." Shooting her a slight smile, I hastily stood up.

She smiled and shook her head. "You are so bad."

With a wide grin, I replied, "I try." Suddenly, I remembered one thing I had wanted to return to Nicky, and I opened my backpack. "Before I forget, here 're the sketches that Jonathan 'returned' to me." A handful of carefully folded papers passed between our hands. "I also added some new ones."

"So that's where they went," she had whispered. "He hasn't been sleeping well since they disappeared." She had looked through the pictures of a superhero fighting monsters and came across one of the newer panels. "Oh, Sketch, he's going to love this one." She stared at me with so much emotion that it had begun to make me uncomfortable.

"It wasn't anything. It's just a bunch of dumb comics," I had mumbled. One night, after he had finished telling me about the monsters under his bed, I told him about a world where The Guardian, a superhero, slays them all, protecting little boys from all the "bad" things in the world. It was then that I had begun to put that world to paper; Kel had told me that he insisted on putting them on his wall. After that, he seemed to sleep a little bit easier; it's a wonder what can ease the mind of a child.

She clucked her tongue. "You know, it's more than that to him. The world you created helps him feel safe."

It gave me a jolt of pleasure to know that they brought him security, but all that mushy stuff had just served to make me damned uncomfortable. Emotions. I hadn't had to deal with them in a long time, and right now, I gave into my urge to run from their source. "Take care of him and be careful. I gotta go," I had mumbled as I hurriedly left the home of the one person I considered family, promising myself as I left that I would always live up to my promise.

A dropping book pulled me out of my reverie. With a sigh, I stared at the headlines and resumed my mental debate. Looking at the sketch I had made of the man I knew was responsible for my problems, I couldn't help but shiver. When drawing, I zone out and concentrate on the details. Only looking at it later do I see the entire picture, and this time, there, in front of me, was the face that haunted my nightmares and lived in my memories. _Would he really kill a five-year-old little boy?_ I asked myself for the hundredth time. Each time the question crossed my mind, I recalled all I knew about him, and deep in my gut, I knew. I knew he would kill Nicky without a second thought. A sudden chill swept over my body, and I knew I had a choice to make.

_Will giving this to Goren and Eames stop him? He'll kill Nicky if I don't do something, but could it make things worse? Could the distribution of his face cause him to step up his timetable? Would it force him to complete his hand? Will it put Nicky in more immediate danger?_ Such were the thoughts that bombarded my tired mind, and I saw Nicky in my mind's eye, playing and laughing with Kelly. I knew what I had to do. I had to get it to Major Case. I had to protect Nicky. It was my duty, as his older brother, to do so.


	3. A Friendly Game

**Disclaimer: Don't own Eames and Goren. Wish I did. (sigh) **

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to all of you who have reviewed! I'm sooooo sorry for the delay, but school has been really kicking my butt this term. Hopefully things will slow down to where I can do a chapter a week, but. . .well. . .that will depend on when the evil Professors will leave me alone.  
**

** Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. Let me know if you want to get Bobby's perspective on Sketch, cuz I've been kicking around ideas for that. Or if you'd just like to keep it Sketch's perspective, that's cool too. The next chapter is at your mercy.**

** So without further ado. . .here's chapter three.**

Chapter 3: A Friendly Game

_You're such a wuss_, I mentally scolded myself. _How could you punk out like that? You know that giving them the sketch might've been the best chance to protect Nicky. So why didn't you give it to them? At least, you'd have some help looking for the creep. _

Another voice in my chimed in, _You don't need help. Nicky's your responsibility. Not theirs! You can do this on your own. You've done it this long. _

_It's okay to ask for help. _The other one answered back. _Haven't you learned anything? And to send them Danny's badge number and picture without even talking to Kel! What the hell were you thinking! He's her cousin, for God's sake. Can you imagine the pain she'll be in if they go asking about her murdered cousin? _

"Dammit, kid," my elderly opponent groused as I took his queen with my knight, pulling me out of my headache-inducing mental debate. He glared at me, and shoving my other thoughts aside, I smirked back at him, completely unrepetent. "Be back in five, George. Think you'll move by then?"

"Humph. No respect. Kids these days have no respect," George grumbled, with a friendly twinkle in his eye. _Yeah, you don't even respect the dead or your the wishes of your best friend's family_, my mental voice chimed in, making my head pound from both fatigue and the never-ending mental debate. _This is what thinking gets you_, I thought ruefully. _A gigantic headache. No wonder TV's so popular. No thinking required._

"Respect's earned, Georgie," I smartly replied, but my tone was off. Concern appeared in George's eyes. Shaking my head to warn him off, I made my way to my other game.

Quickly scanning the board, I moved my pawn, opening a path from my bishop to his king, and glanced slyly at the young man who was my opponent in this game. "Checkmate." The reaction of "Bronx", the name I had mentally tagged him with due to his accent, was almost comical. I've never seen a person's eyes grow so wide. It was almost enough to pull me out of my funk.

"But. . .but. . .but," he sputtered, stunned confusion crossing his face. "You only made five moves. How'd you do that?" A hint of awe and respect colored his voice, definitely an ego-boosting experience, let me tell you that.

I heard George snort behind me. "Geez, kid. Don't talk to him like that. He's already got a big enough head."

I shot a quick look, and, with a lifted eyebrow, quipped, "Move yet, old man?"

With a "humph", he went back to staring at the board. I chuckled quietly, knowing very well that meant he hadn't. The thing about George is that he took forever to make a move. He'd make as if to move one piece then drop his hand. Stare for a few minutes. Lift his hand again before changing his mind. It's a maddening experience if you're his oppnonent. In the months we've been playing against one another, his record was ten minutes. In the time it had taken him to finish that move, I had already completed two games of blitz or speed chess and had started another "normal" game.

Shaking my head, I looked back at my stunned adversary, who was no doubt a novice to the game. That was why I had given him the option of foregoing the clock, a choice he had wisely chosen. His stunned gaze looking over the board over and over again, as if he was checking to make sure that was true. I waited patiently for the loss to sink in. When it finally he did, he asked, "Dude, you gotta show me how you did that!"

Searching his eyes, I knew he was sincere, and he went up a few notches in my book. There's nothing I like more than someone who likes to learn. Maybe that's just the genius in me. "Sure," I stated, as I re-set the board to what it had looked like prior to both of our turns. Glancing at him, I said, "Make every move count. Try to dominate the center." A sense of satisfaction came over me when I saw him nod and begin to concentrate. "Now, think it through and try again."

I glanced at the board on George's table and noticed that he still hadn't moved. "All right," I heard Bronx say. Looking back at the board in front of me, I nodded with approval and moved a piece in return.

"Hey, kid. It's your move," George said to me.

"Finally," I replied, as I went over to the table. Seeing his move, I countered it with one of my own and, with a smirk, held up three fingers, showing him how many moves until checkmate.

"Dammit. Go easy on an old man, why don't you?" He complained as his eyes scoured the board to figure out how I would make good of my threat.

It was my turn to snort. "Where's the fun in that?"

The sound of cell phone going off interrupted his reply, and my eyes swung over when I heard Bronx, "Getting my ass whupped in chess. . .Oh, man!. . .I'll be right there." He flipped his phone closed and began to stand up. He glanced at me. "I've gotta go. Another time?"

I nodded. "Good game."

Looking back to see that George hadn't made his move yet, I re-set the board on which I had been playing with Bronx.

"Can anyone play?" My muscles tensed at the sound of a deep voice coming from behind me.

"Blitz only," I stated as I continued in my task.

A bulky frame sat in the seat across from me, and I looked for the first time into the brown eyes of one Detective Robert Goren. At that instant, I knew that I had made the right decision. Flippant. Sarcastic. Smart replies. These kept people from knowing me, and that was okay with George and the other players. They weren't interested in trying to get answers out of me, and they respected my silence. All they cared about was playing the game and maybe picking up a few pointers. That's easy. No effort really required. No pesky emotions involved. The mask I had worked long and hard to cultivate could stay in place, but knowing what I did about the man who sat across from me and looking into his eyes, I knew he would try to chip away at my facade until it either cracked or broke all together. His techniques were legendary and had been highlighted in several of the articles and court records I had read. It wasn't only that. By looking into his eyes, I knew he had experienced the darker, grief- and pain-filled side of life, and while that fact made me feel some sort of respect and kinship with him, it also meant that he had experience to complement his other talents. Knowledge and experience can be a dangerous combination, especially when they're directed at you.

"Fine by me," he stated as he made his opening move. The clock made a clicking sound as he finished his turn. "My name's Robert."

When I silently made my move, he tilted his head to the side and said with a smile, "A man of mystery, huh? I like to know the names of my opponents." His gaze sharpened upon me as I heard the clock _click_.

After taking my turn, I shot a warning glance at George, who was watching the scene with interest. He had been the one to give me my new name, and I didn't want to run the risk of having the cop in front of me learning things I didn't want him to. He quirked an bushy brow at me in return, and I knew he had understood me.

Looking at the man across from me, I didn't know why he had decided to pretend. Even if I hadn't known who he was, I'd been on the streets long enough to smell a cop from a mile away. I hate when people choose to play games. . .to be something other than who they are. _So he wants to play games. Let's play. _Just because I don't like to play games, doesn't mean I can't. I decided to test how good this guy really was. "'What's in a name?'" I quoted as I made my move.

Watching as his brow crinkled a bit at my response, it was the only indication that I had either surprised him or totally confused him. A tiny bit of disappointment rose within me at the thought that he hadn't caught on. I looked back at George to see that a look of surprise on his face. His eyes were staring at me thoughtfully. The most annoying part of it was he wasn't even making an effort to show a lack of interest. Meeting his eyes, I quirked an eyebrow and mouthed, _Move? _Within a matter of seconds, I heard Goren say, "Shakespeare's 'Romeo and Juliet,' huh? Good choice. How about this one? 'A good name is better than precious ointment.'" Click. My head swung around to see him grinning at me. _This could be fun after all_, I thought to myself.

Not wanting to show my delight in his willingness to play along, I smirked instead. "Bringing out the big guns already, huh? Ecclesiastes, chapter 7, verse 1. 'I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought.' Check."

"Shakespeare. 'King Henry IV'," he replied absently as he quickly looked over the board.

George's look of surprise was common. My intellectual side always shocked people, a reaction I enjoyed instilling in them. Bronx had shown a similar reaction earlier. I knew what it was. They underestimated me because of the way I look. Backwards ball cap. Worn oversize clothes. The fact that I looked like I was twelve didn't help, and it didn't take long for people to tell I lived on the street. I tried to shower before coming here but that's not as easy as you think. No one expects a young street kid to be able to play chess or quote books from memory, but having a photographic memory and genuis level IQ certainly helped to quickly prove them wrong. Finally, making his move, he coolly stated, "'A good name is better than riches.' Check." Click. The look on his face seemed to think that he had me trapped.

I snorted. "So you mentioned before. 'Proverbs chapter 22, verse 1." Looking at him with mock disappointment, "Need to shake it up, man." When he seemed to about to object, I hurriedly added, "But then you coulda meant 'de Cervantes, Don Quixote'." He nodded, a piercing look on his face. "'A name is a cheap thing all fathers and mothers leave each child.'" Click. I couldn't help but enjoy myself. It was fun to be able to trade quotes with someone, and he was definitely giving me a run for my money in our game.

"Carl Sandburg. Chicago Poems. 'Give us a name to fill the mind.'" Click.

I quirked an eyebrow. "Do I look like France to you? 'Henry van Dyke. 'The Name of France.'"

Before I could quip my return quote, I heard a voice behind me say, "There you are." My opponent's eyes all but lit up at its sound. _He's got it bad_,I couldn't help but think as I turned around to see Detective Eames walking towards us. The sparkle in her eye told me that she just might feel the same, but then what do I know?

"I should've known you'd be here. A whole bunch of chess fanatics all in one place. What was I thinking?" She teased as she came up to stand closely beside him. _Interesting. Perhaps he isn't the only one who feels it. _Goren glanced up at her and gave her a shy smile. "It was supposed to be a quick game."

"Yeah right. Your brain is constantly in hyperdrive. I can hear it from here," she retorted, turning towards me. "Hi, I'm Alex. Thanks for keeping my him company."

_So she's playing as well. I wonder how long she's been watching us. It's time to end this charade_. "Sure thing, Detective." I turned my attention to Goren and said, "Your move."

A flicker of surprise showed in her eyes as she glanced down at her partner. He stared at me, but he, at least, didn't seem to be fazed by my revelation. I have a feeling he had known all along but was having just as much as fun as I.

George had been so quiet that I'd almost forgotten that he was there. "Detective? Dammit, kid! What have you gone and done now?"

I shrugged at him, and he glared at me for my uncooperative attitude. His attention finally swung "So what's he done to get New York's finest after 'im?" Eyes curious but filled with some sort of resolution. I looked at him curiously, wondering where that look of determination came from.

Eames looked at him and smoothly replied, "We just have a few questions for him. Could we speak to you privately?" I heard a click, and I knew that Goren had made his move.

Turning to examine the board, I said, "Here's fine, and check."

She shrugged. "Okay." She pulled a picture out of her jacket pocket and handed it to me.. "Do you know this man?" Click.

Of course I did. I was under no illusion as to why they were here. It was all about our fight. No sense in lying then. "Yes." Click, and the game was on again.

"And how do you know Mr. Robinson?" Click.

"You mean Jonathan Robinson? The guy who was killed?" George asked, confusion coloring his voice.

"That's him," I heard Goren say. "Check."

I kept my attention on the board, refusing to give Goren any amunition against me. As long as I didn't look at him, I could keep my mask intact. No cracks to be seen. Moving a piece I replied to Eames' question. "Picture's everywhere. Hard to miss."

All of a sudden, two brown eyes were in my line of sight, boring into me. It threw me for a second, and I hoped it hadn't shown on my face. It was perfectly done too. All he had to do was tilt his head a little and try to make eye contact. "We heard you had a fight with him. What was it about?"

I sighed, hoping my explanation would appease them both. "He didn't like my sketches. Wanted a refund. I refused." Click.

"You still have those sketches?" Click.

"No." Click. It wasn't really a lie. I _didn't _have it, but there was no need to tell them about returning them to Nicky.

"Where were you the night he was killed?"

I shrugged. "Around."

"Geez, that's really specific," Eames stated, sarcasm dripping from every word.

I glanced at her, annoyed. "St. Mary's." I _had _been at the mission to get some clothes and food. I'm not sure the people there would even remember when I left, and it was doubtful that anyone had seen me that night. But who knows? _Should I tell 'em? If I get caught in a lie, I'm screwed, but if they find out about me here or about Nicky, I may be screwed anyway. Decisions. Decisions._

Before I could add anything, she brought out the big guns. "Do you know this man?"

Eames gave me another picture. It was the one I had quickly placed in the scanner at the library and sent them instead of my sketch. It was the one I carried around but avoided looking at. It was the one that, for a moment, made me feel as though I had been punched in the gut. I swallowed quickly past the lump in my throat and, handing the picture back to her. "No," I quickly denied any affiliation with the person it depicted.

"His name is Danny Rodriguez. He's a cop in LA."

"Never heard of him," I lied, gratefully turning my focus back to the game. It was my attempt to keep the grief and pain that the picture had evoked deeply buried, away from the prying and intuitive eyes of Goren.

_Danny Rodriguez._ The name rang through my head, conjuring up images in my mind. Danny and me at a Dodgers game. The art supplies he had given me for the first birthday party I had had in a long time. The bookshelf he had built for me for Christmas. His voice teasing me and his laugh when he had successfully conned me into take the GED. His look of pride when I finally got it. I swallowed hard when the images of Danny lying on the floor in a pile of blood filled my mind. The monster had timed it just right, so that I would find the body. I shoved that thought away, trying hard to retain my facade, and I could only hope that I was succeeding. This was the reason I never looked at it.

Blindly making moving a piece on the board, I mentally cursed myself for punking out on sending them my sketch instead. My doubts had filled me, and I, in a moment of utter foolishness, had sent them Danny's picture with the caption "Detective Danny Rodriguez, killed by Robinson's murderer. February 2003." This was followed by his badge number. It had been my foolish belief that the death of a cop, even one in LA, would be the push they need towards seeing what a monster he really was. After seeing the image of the of the man who had saved me from the streets and had given me a stable home for two years, I had to wonder if the pain was worth it, but thinking of Nicky, I knew it was.

It seemed like a few minutes had passed, but in reality, my rambing thoughts had taken seconds. I blinked when I heard Goren say, "Checkmate."

Looking at the board, I saw that I had indeed been beaten at my own game. Not that it mattered anymore. Hearing George's gasp, I looked to see his eyes had widened in disbelief. I shrugged and flippantly replied, "You win some. You lose some." It was just the time I needed to resolutely slip my stoic mask into place.

"Good game," Goren said.

Glancing up at the now standing Detective, I replied, "You too. Any more questions?"

He shot a look at Eames, and their eyes locked. They seemed to be having an entire conversation in that glance, and their connection at that moment was almost tangible. If I hadn't been consumed with my own thoughts, I would've found it fascinating to see if either of them could feel it. All I could think about was that I wanted them to go away. To leave me alone to pick up the pieces of my shattered mask and to allow me to retain a bit of my sanity. I needed to go and be by myself. Lose myself in a book or something. Relief filled me when he turned and said, "That's all for now."

Eames pulled out her card and handed it to me. "If you think of anything else, here's my card."

I nodded absently, slipping the small rectangle into my pocket. As I watched them walk away, I saw Goren rub his neck and glance back at me.

It wasn't long before George pounced on me. "What was that about?" When I failed to respond, he asked, "You okay, kid?"

"Yeah." Shoving the memories into the back of my mind and trying to ignore the pain in my heart, I walked back over to his table. Forcing myself back into my street role, I looked at him with a smirk. "Still haven't moved, huh?"

Taking my cue, he abandoned his questions and said, "How the might have fallen. I think you've met your match."

Slipping into the spot across from him, I rolled my eyes. "Just move, old man." Maybe losing myself in a game and spending some quiet time with chess buddy was just as good as some quiet time on my own, for the sinking feeling in my gut told me, the monsters would be out in my dreams tonight.

**So what do you think? More? Please review or e-mail me and let me know.**


	4. Fighting the Past

**Disclaimers: I don't own Goren, Eames, or Candyland. I'm seriously broke so please don't sue.**

**A/N: Thanks you so much for all of you reviews and your continued support of this story. I'm _so_ sorry for the delay. It's been a crazy few months for me. I was working, writing millions of papers (at least it felt like it), moved back to Oregon, spent a couple of months in California without easy internet access, and have been desperately looking for a job. **

**To all of those who wanted Goren's POV, Sketch demanded to be in charge of this chapter, so there you have it, but in order to reward your tremendous patience, I decided to offer my wonderful audience an option of reading a Goren-focused piece. It's looking like that will be the next chapter (planning to have it done this week). **

**Happy reading, and please review. If you don't review, I'll figure you've lost interest, so if you want it to continue, please write me your suggestions and comments.**

Chapter 4: Fighting the Past

_Sister Tara must be on coffee duty_, I thought, wincing as the toxic liquid someone had erroneously labeled "coffee" hit my taste buds. The poor sister was notorious for her inability to make a decent cup, and this was true even when instructions were clearly written down. It's always either too strong or too weak, and it seemed that today was one of her "too strong" days. _Thank God_. As I had predicted, demons from the past had haunted me since my game with the good detective, keeping me up at night and forcing me to run on caffeine, sugar, sheer will power, and the occasional, lucky moments of sleep. It hadn't been an easy few days, I can tell you that much. Forgotten memories constantly floated to my mind at the weirdest moments, keeping me up at night and completely throwing me off my game.

As you can image, life on the streets isn't easy. You have to keep on your toes; your survival depends on it. That's why, when I'm not 100, I stay off the streets through any means possible, and today, that meant spending time in what the staff at St Mary's lovingly called "Sketch's Corner", a table at the mission where I play board games and tutor the homeless kids who come through here.

I felt a tug on my sleeve and looked down into the brown eyes of one of my young protégés. I squatted down and said, "What's up, Brian?"

Brian was one of the newer kids. He is incredibly shy and loves one-on-one attention. His dad had lost everything when his mother was hospitalized. I don't why or if she's still there, but a few months ago, his dad had come to the mission in search of a second chance. The only problem was Brian, and that's where I come in. After school, his dad drops him off here before going to his new, minimum wage job. From what I've heard, he's trying to pay off the rest of his debts and is searching for an affordable place. While he's doing that, the other volunteers and I help out with Brian. I couldn't help but be envious. _Must be nice to have a parent like that_. Red warning lights went off at the thought, and I quickly stop myself from going down that road. Not today.

Brian leaned in close as if to tell me a secret and shyly whispered, "Will you play Candyland with me?"

Looking into those Bassett Hound eyes, I couldn't say no. Despite my somewhat anti-social tendencies and complete social ineptness, I like kids, and amazingly, they like me too. Their innocence draws me like a starving man seeing food for the first time. It had been so long since I had felt such simple wonder at the world. In fact, I can't remember ever having it. Nothing should take away their innocence. Nothing. I like to think that by helping out at the mission I'm shielding "my kids" from the realities of the world for a little bit longer, but then again, maybe such fanciful thoughts are just the lack of sleep talking.

A small smile creased my face. "Sure thing, bud." I stood up and held out my hand to him. "Let's go." A big grin creased his face, and satisfaction filled me. Yup. Kids are definitely easier to handle, at least for me. I've been betrayed by too many adults to trust them easily, but with children, that stress really isn't present. It often amazes me at how a simple game can brighten up a child's entire day. It must be nice to not worry about protecting yourself and your family, finding food for the day, or trying to find shelter from the weather, weirdoes and perverts – not necessarily in that order.

As we began to make our way over to my assigned table, the door to the mission opened, and I turned my head to see Goren and Eames enter the building. I quickly turned my head away and prayed that they hadn't seen me. While Brian happily chatted away about this and that, I couldn't help but cast an occasional wary glance toward the two detectives, especially when Father Miguel stepped up to greet them. _They haven't seen me yet. Maybe I can still avoid them_. Brian's cheerful voice penetrated my panicked mind. _Don't be such a wuss! You can't just up 'n' leave 'im like that! He shouldn't be hurt just because you're a wimp!_ At the scolding of conscience, shame crashed over me like a wave hitting the shore. To ease my conscience, I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Why don't we go raid the kitchen for some of Sister C's brownies?" I mentally rolled my eyes. _Not only are you trying to bribe a kid because of a guilty conscience. You're also teaching him to rebel. Great move!_

The kid's eyes grew large with amazement. "Really?" Within the next second, his shoulders slumped, and he announced, "I'm not allowed in there."

Looking into those eyes filled with wonder and defeat, I couldn't help myself. _So much for the big bad street kid, huh? What a load of bull! If they only knew. . ._ I shook my head at the thought and forced a smile to crease my face. "It'll be our little secret, huh?" I winked at him, and the two of us made our way into the sacred lair of Sister Catherine, who ruled the room and its staff with an iron fist. _Man, she's gonna have a heart attack if she ever finds out._

I pulled open the refrigerator door, and after scrimmaging through its contents, I held up the plastic container with pride. God! It was like being a kid again, and I must say that it felt good. Handing one of the gooey, rich, chocolate and peanut butter dessert to Brian, I took a large bite of my own. Just as I was about to swallow, I heard a voice say, "I think those are for dinner."

I jumped a foot in the air and almost dropped the brownie. _Aww, hell!_ I thought, cursing myself for not being more alert.I heard Brian gasp, his eyes filled with guilt. We both spun around to meet the amused gaze of Father Miguel. "Hey, _Padre_," I greeted meekly.

Chuckling, he stepping forward and said, "Give me one of those." Shooting him a grateful look, I handed over one of our contraband. Taking a bite, he sighed. "These are delicious. No wonder you risked her wrath."

Brian stared on in wonder and relief. I knew he couldn't believe that Father Miguel had joined our little raid, but I knew that this gentle man didn't have the heart to scold us for our childish trick. In fact, I think he enjoyed it as almost as much we did.

Looking up, I met the eyes of the other man. "Sketch, I need to talk to you," he said softly in Spanish, a language that I first learned while staying with my grandmother and that I became fluent in while living in the group home and growing up on the streets of LA. It turned out to be a very important skill. The city is full of Latino gangs, and it can be very dangerous not to know their language, especially so that you knew if they had a beef with you. When I met Father Miguel, I first spoke to him in Spanish, and by some unwritten agreement, we had continued that tradition. Gotta keep up them skills, ya know?

_Not today, dammit! _I wanted to shout at him. . .at all of them, but I knew I couldn't. It would only make things worse. I heaved a resigned sigh. _Why did they pick today of all days! The one day for me to recuperate . . .to get some of my energy back . . .to try to drive these memories from my head. _Somehow, though, it seemed to fit the tone of the last couple of days. Resigned to this fact, I nodded, and with a quiet sigh, I bent down to say, "Bri, why don't you go get the game and meet me at the Corner?"

"Okay," he replied happily as he went off towards the game shelf.

Grabbing the plastic container that sat on the counter in front of me, he explained, "The detectives want to talk to you."

I nodded, acknowledging his statement. Nothing new there.

"At the station."

My head shot up at that little tidbit. I knew what that meant. They didn't just want to _talk _to me; they wanted to _interrogate _me! I was a suspect. "Fuck!" I cast an apologetic look towards Father Miguel. He had scolded me many a time about my language, especially in front of the kids.

Suddenly, suspicion filled me. It was a natural response. I'd been betrayed by many people in my life, and I had a sinking feeling that maybe I could add the good _padre_ to the list. Hurt filled me at the thought. I'd always thought that Father Miguel was one of the good guys, and it was one of the reasons that I had kept coming to this mission. Trying desperately to hide the depth of my disappointment and pain, I sneered, "With you as my escort?" I kept watching the door, expecting them to barge in and haul me off at any moment.

Hurt flashed across his face. "C'mon, Sketch. You know me better than that." He took a step towards me, but I unconsciously took a step back towards the alley-side exit, ready to bolt at any moment. With a deep sigh, he stopped. "They don't know you're here. They simply asked me to contact them the next time I saw you." Casting a quick but wary glance towards the door, I carefully examined his face, hoping to see some sort of indication that he was telling the truth. Instead, I saw amusement flicker in his eyes.

"What?" I asked, completely confused.

"I introduced them to Sandy." He chuckled. Sandy is one of our volunteers, and she is a talker. She'll talk your ear off if you give her the chance. Even if you try to cut her off or ignore her, she'll follow you around, completely unfazed. Nothing stops her when she's on a roll. So you hear about her kids, work, her husband, her sister, her parents, her brothers, and anything else that may pop into her head whether you want to or not.

So it was with disbelief and amusement that I greeted his announcement. "You didn't."

He nodded. "Had to. Once I saw you and Brian slip in here, it was the only way I could come in here and talk to you."

"Some priest you are," I teased, "Are you sure that doesn't break one of your vows?"

He shrugged, completely unrepentant. "So about this predicament. You gonna tell me what's going on?"

My automatic tough guy façade kicked in, so I answered with an air of confidence, "It's nothing."

He rubbed a hand over his face, a gesture I had come to recognize that signaled his frustration. It was a mannerism that he often used when dealing with me. I wonder why? "C'mon, Sketch. I know you think you can handle this on your own, but you could be in some serious trouble here. They said that you're somehow involved in the case of Jonathan Robinson. Talk to me. I want to help." His eyes begged me to let him in on what is going on. Over the past few days, I had been tempted to tell him what was going on, but my gut kept telling me not to. Perhaps in time, I would have, but it takes a while.

I greeted his plea with silence.

He heaved a sigh. "Fine. At least let me come with you to the station when you go."

I shook my head. "That's not necessary."

"It's not that I don't think you can't do this. It's just that I don't trust them to treat you right. All I want is to make sure that you're rights are protected."

He had a good point, but still, a struggle ensued within myself. On the one hand, I knew that every state had different laws dealing with minors and the police. Hell, I've had first hand experience with it back in California, but I wasn't sure what the New York law said on the whole thing. I knew one thing for sure: I wasn't going to let a technicality like that help get the guy off. So, if protecting the case meant that a priest had to baby-sit me, then so be it. At the same time, I knew he was a nice guy, and he would do his best to make sure I was treated right – something after my years on the streets didn't trust the cops to willingly do on their own. Also, I knew that if he came with us, he'd learn things about me that I may not want him to know.

There was only one thing to do. I shrugged and said, "It's your time to waste."

Relief flittered across his face. "Glad to hear that. So when do you want to do this?"

At his question, I fell silent, my brain and my gut warring with one another. My brain told me that I could put it off for a little bit, or at least until I felt up to it. In my gut, however, I knew they wouldn't stop combing the streets, looking for me. If I was a suspect, then there would be an APB out for me, and I'd have to look over my shoulder until I went in. I could probably hide from them, but what would be the point? They could accuse me of trying to obstruct justice or something. Cops made up charges all the time.

"Sketch?"

I looked at him and could tell that it wasn't the first time he had called my name. My shoulder slumped in defeat, and dread raced through my veins. "Might as well do it now."

He put a hand on the shoulder and looked at me with concern. "Are you sure? You look exhausted. Maybe we should do it tomorrow."

Resolute in my decision, I stated, "I'll be fine." _I just hope I don't regret this_.

He squeezed my shoulder and said, "Okay. I'll have one of the sisters call a church lawyer before we leave, and I'll stay with you until he gets there. Deal?"

I nodded. "Deal."

With a deep breath to settle my nerves, we re-entered the general area. Looking around, I spotted the two detectives still talking to Sandy, and within an instant, Goren spotted us, a fact that was confirmed when Eames turned to look at us as well. I needed to keep up my façade. There was no way that I would let them get the upper hand now. I crossed my arms, leaned against the nearest wall and watched them approach.

"Sketch, we need you to come with us," Eames said.

"So I hear." I glanced back over to my table and saw that Brian had the game ready and was watching us very carefully. "Give me a minute."

Goren tried to step into my path, but I easily dodged his attempt. His bulky frame was no match for my wiry one. My body had been trained to avoid tight space, to easily avoid any sort of unwanted bodily contact, and to quickly get around obstacles. Without even glancing back at them, I went to the table and squatted down next to Brian. "Hey, kiddo. I gotta go now." Disappointment spread across his face like a tidal wave, and guilt hit me just as hard. I hated upsetting my kids, but there wasn't anything I could do. "But I tell you what: when I get back, we'll have a day. Just you and me. We can do anything you want. Deal?" I held out my hand.

He looked up at me with an extremely serious look on his little face. "Promise?"

I smiled and ruffled his hair. "Promise."

His mouth started to twitch and before you knew it, a wide grin creased his face. "Deal." He surprised me by skipping the handshake and giving me a large huge. Such signs of affection are still foreign to me. It wasn't unusual for one of my kids to grab my hand or to spontaneously hug me, so I was getting used to them. Both they and I were starved for affection, and we were able to feed one another. That said, the conditioning from past, especially the times when affection equaled weakness, made me feel extremely uncomfortable with such blatant displays of emotion. Secretly, though, it also made each such gesture precious in its own right.

Awkwardly patting him on the back, I whispered in his ear, "Think really good about it 'cuz I'm expecting to have a blast!"

He pulled back and nodded eagerly. The sadness that had mired his face a few minutes ago had been replaced with excitement and pride. "I will, Sketch. I promise."

I smiled at him and said, "You do that. Now, go ask Sister Catherine to play with you. I know for a fact that she _loves_ Candyland."

"Okay." He turned to run through the hallway, shouting, "Sister Catherine!" at the top of his lungs. _One crisis adverted; another to come. _With a sigh, I turned to join my escorts and met the contemplative gaze of Goren, who seemed to be trying to figure me out. _Good luck with that, _I thought as we all walked out of the mission.

At the station, they stuck me in what could only be an interrogation room. That would explain the metal chairs, drab gray paint job and, of course, the two-way mirror. I took a seat in one of the extremely uncomfortable, cold chairs, and Father Miguel sat next to me.

"We had a few follow up questions for you," Detective Goren stated as he and Eames walked into the room and sat across from us. He opened a brown leather portfolio and began to leaf through some of the papers. "How did you meet Mr. Robinson?"

_Don't give away too much_. With that thought, the lie slipped easily from my lips. "Never met 'im." Of course, I _had _met him when I first moved here, but he had told me to get lost. That was the thanks I got for trying to warn him to keep Nicky safe. The next time I saw him, he was shoving my sketches at me and yelling at me with his face beet red.

Goren's forehead creased as if in confusion, and his eyes fixed on me like a laser. I fought the impulse to shift in my seat. "But didn't you have a fight about your sketches?"

There was nothing about this man that said he was forgetful or prone to confusion. Indeed, I bet he's quite the opposite. Judging by the thickness of his portfolio, I'd bet he's probably one of those people who writes everything down even when they don't have to. I leaned back in my chair, showing him that his effort had been wasted. "Yeah."

"If you never met him, how could he have them?" Eames chimed in, obviously following her partner's chain of thought. I'm not sure that many people could do that. He strikes me as a pretty complex guy.

I knew that there wasn't an easy, credible way to get out of this, so I tried to come up with a version that wouldn't give away too much and went with a part of the truth. "Simon Carson asked me to sketch the Stock Exchange building for someone named Robinson."

"How did he get the sketches that he 'returned' to you?" Eames piped in.

I shrugged and turned to look at her. "Don't know. Coulda been from anyone." Another lie.

I knew exactly how he'd got those sketches. He'd swiped them from Nicky's room; I wonder when exactly he realized that they were mine.

Two lies in the span . . .of what – five minutes? _God, what is happening to me?_ I thought with dismay. _How many more lies am I going to tell? How many will I have to remember? _I began to feel nauseous. I hate having to lie. I may not be the most forthcoming guy, but when I do talk, I tend to be honest. _At least, I used to_. It may not seem like it, but I've discovered that keeping track of lies just takes too much energy. Of course, when it comes to survival or protecting my family, all bets are off. For that reason, these lies came easily.

"Why did he give them back?" Goren asked.

"He never said."

"So he demands a refund and then what happened?"

"I told 'im to get lost, he shoved me. I fought back. He backed off." I shrugged. "End of story."

_So far so good. Nothing too painful. Keep cool. _These were the words that kept running through my head. While I started to relax a bit, I kept my guard up. You never know what tricks cops will play, especially these two. Who knows what they have up their sleeves. They brought me here for a reason, and it wasn't just for this nice little chit-chat.

"You told us you didn't know Danny Rodriguez, is that correct?" he asked, completely changing the course of the conversation again. I knew it was a ploy to throw me off, and it did for a moment. I had had a hunch that they would bring him up eventually, so the mention of his name didn't really faze me. In fact, I was handling this interrogation fine until he put a damned picture of Danny on the table in front of me and turned it so that his face was directly in front of me. I could feel the cracks in my armor beginning spread. I didn't know how much longer I could withstand their onslaught without incriminating myself. Gathering what was left of my resolve, I swallowed hard and nodded.

"Really? Because you match the description of AJ, his adopted son," Goren stated, as he pulled out what appeared to be a thick manila file from under his portfolio. From my point of view, I could just make out the name written on the file tab, _Rodriguez, Daniel February 14, 2003_. The big guns had come out. _Oh, yeah. This is going to hurt like shit_, I thought, knowing that this time there was no game to help me avoid this perceptive detective. I swallowed hard and began to prepare myself for the pain that would surely follow this new encounter.

He opened the file and pointed to a notation. "See it's right here. 'Male Hispanic runaway. Tawny eyes. Dark hair. On Last seen wearing an oversize denim jacket, backwards LA Dodgers baseball cap, and jeans. Was also carrying a ratty green backpack.'"

"Seems to fit you to a 't'," Eames agreed, playing their little game. The way the two of them were able to play off one another was quite something. I had had a lot of run-ins with cops, but the connection and interaction between these two was unique and hard to find. It was as if they could anticipate each other's moves and thoughts. Definitely a plus for partners. I couldn't help but wonder if it came from them being something more.

In answer to her statement, I shrugged, trying to continue to play it cool. There was no way that I was going to show them how nervous I am. I didn't want to go where they were taking me, so I tried one last time to deflect the course of the conversation. "The name's Sketch." _At least now it is_, a voice in my head chimed in.

Looking into Goren's eyes, I knew that my plan had backfired. For a second, his intense gaze seemed to try to pierce my soul before darkening with resolution. He had made some sort of decision, and I had a feeling that I wasn't going to like it.

"Maybe you don't recognize Mr. Rodriguez from this picture. How about this one? Or this one? Or this?" He asked, calmly placing several morgue and crime scene photos on the table. These pushed me to the brink of my exhausted mind.

"Detective, I must protest!" Father Miguel shouted, but it was too late the damage had been done. He couldn't protect me now, not from my own memories. I swallowed hard as my mind whirred at his insinuation, aggravating my already pounding head. People say, "Pictures are worth a thousand words", and these gruesome, painful pictures were permanent records of a time and place that I would rather forget. Looking down at them, the past and the present began to mix in my head. Suddenly, I could smell the distinct, copper-like smell of blood, hear the sound of the sirens wailing in the background, and feel the ache in my arms from the dead weight of Danny's body. I could taste my tears as I begged him to hold on until the paramedics arrived, and I could feel the pain in my heart as I helplessly watched the light slowly leave his eyes. It was then I knew that he was dead and that my life would never be the same. In order to maintain what was left of my sanity in my sleep-deprived condition, I decided that I wanted to avoid looking at further items that could take me deeper into my memories.

"Fine," I said in a low voice. Resolution filled me. I didn't want them to know the blow they had scored with that one. _I can get through this_, I kept telling myself. "I knew 'im, but I didn't kill him."

"Oh, that's right. A _burglar_ did it. Did he by any chance have one arm?" Eames asked sarcastically.

I looked at her, trying to hide my frustration. All cops are the same. They are so blinded by their desire to arrest someone that they don't care who they target, and they discount all alternative possibilities. No wonder I didn't trust 'em.

"Detectives, I really don't think you should be badgering him like this," the priest once again protested. The poor man was trying, but he didn't have a clue on how this game was played. "Besides I don't see what a case in California has to do with the unfortunate death of Mr. Robinson."

Refusing to explain, the interrogation continued. "You ever see a card like this?" Goren asked, as he pulled out an evidence bag from his pocket. Inside, I could see a small white card. I picked it up and read the message neatly printed on the side: _Johnny. Johnny. Johnny. Found you again. Guess who's next?_ This only confirmed that my Satan had indeed killed Jonathan, a realization that made me swallow hard.

_Johnny_. It had been so long since I had actually seen or thought it. When I was a kid, I hated the nickname, and even now, I can hear the devil in my head hiss: _Johnny. Johnny._ I refused to open that door because if I did, it would lead to even more painful memories, and at this point and time, I couldn't afford that. Not here. Not in front of _him_. Feigning ignorance, I replied, "No."

"Oh, c'mon, _Ghost_!" Goren taunted, the room suddenly feeling much smaller, and I fought against his attempt at intimidation. I had met many bad asses on the streets, and I'd never backed down from a fight. Yet, in my current condition, it was difficult to maintain my tough, devil-may-care attitude. _Keep cool_, I kept telling myself. He pointed his finger at me. "A similar note at the Rodriguez scene." He pulled out another evidence bag from Danny's file. I didn't even have to pick it up to know what it said: _Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. Second time's a charm. _"The bodies. . .the notes. . .the fight. . .they all lead back to you." Suddenly his voice became soft and coaxing. "I mean, it was your birthday. Tell me, did Detective Rodriguez try to stop you from taking a little something to celebrate? Is that why you killed him?"

Apparently calling me a murderer really didn't sit well with Father Miguel because he adamantly stated, "Now, Detective, that's really. . ."

My eyes flew to his face and adamantly stated, "I ain't a thief."

"Really?" Eames asked, a skeptical note in her voice. "Because according to our source in LA, you've been in and out of juvie for pick pocketing, purse snatching and shoplifting. And it was just a coincidence that there was an report of a robbery the day before."

Okay. So I guess technically I am one, but in my mind, the petty crimes I had done in my life weren't really illegal; they were a matter of survival. I only stole when I was on the streets so that I wouldn't starve. Therefore, for me, thieves were the burglars or robbers who threaten people with weapons, break into house, and do other crazy, violent stuff like that.

The thing that got me is that they wouldn't have known about my record if their "source" hadn't told them about it. There was only one person who hated me enough to spill that kind of information, and that was Danny's partner, Scot Cameron. Panic started to consume me. _Stupid idiot! You should've realized that they would contact Danny's partner about his case. Scott would be more than happy to turn their attention to you. How could you be so stupid? _I mentally groaned.

_Scott Cameron_. The name brought a bad taste to my mouth, and in fact, he was one of the reasons that I lied to them in the first place. The guy hated me because I beat his kid up for trying to steal money from me, but daddy dearest is in denial. Blamed me for the entire thing and even tried to get Danny to kick me out. When Danny was murdered, the bastard tried to pin that on me as well.It's likely that he's done the same here.

_Damn, Damn, Double Damn! _They could have all kinds of information about me from that bastard. _Aw hell! What have I done?_ _Keep calm_, I warned myself, finally staving off the wave of anxiety that had threatened to consume me. In its place, rage at Scott began to consume me. _That damned Cameron has done it again. He's pointed them to me out of pure spite, and they buy it because he's a COP. Damned blue wall. _Reigning in my temper, I freely stated, "If I were, I never would'a stole from Danny! We were cool. It was. . ." I was all set to tell them about Scott's little drug-addicted thief of a son, but Eames beat me to it.

"Him?" She asked, throwing the sketch I had given the cops for Danny's case onto the table and completely deflating my indignant bubble. I stared once again into the face of the man who ruined my life and was about to end Nicky's as well. My eyes scrutinized my work, noting details that I had since forgotten. I'd done this one right after Danny's murder, during a rash attempt to purge myself of the demon. I had also done it in the naïve hope that the cops would use it to catch the guy responsible.

The door opened, and a woman stepped into the room. My mind barely registered her introduction as my lawyer. I missed the good Father's attempts to talk to me, reassure me or whatever. His voice simply became drowned out by my own thoughts. Everything became too much for my tired mind. I could feel myself slipping, slipping back into the past. . .back to the day of Danny's murder. Flashbacks of the day and others bombarded my mind, and my eyes focused on the notes that he had left for me. A sinister voice whispered in my head, _Johnny. Johnny. I'm coming for you, Johnny._ No matter what I tried to do to try to break myself from the downward spiral I could feel myself slipping into. The voice continued to taunt me. _Johnny. Johnny. Johnny_. Each time, it pulled my closer and closer to the horrors of the past, and I could feel myself withdraw from the present.

As I did so, I failed to notice the confusion that marked the face of Father Miguel at my current state. I missed other things as well. Goren's look of concern at the priest's explanation. The wrinkle in his forehead growing deeper. His brown eyes casting almost helpless look towards Eames. Maybe if I had seen it, I would have said something, but I was too lost, feeling numb. _Johnny, Johnny, I'm coming for you Johnny._

_Thud!_ I flinched at the sound of a loud slamming of a book on a table, a sound that I allowed to echo through my brain and drown out the nasty voice. Still numb, I turned my eyes towards the man across from me, noticing that his portfolio was now closed. His brown eyes filled with something that looked like compassion.

I don't know why she did it, but my lawyer, who I later learned was named Claire Montgomery, then and there terminated the interview. "Detectives, I think this has gone on long enough. You don't have any evidence tying my client to the Robinson murder."

We all knew she was right, so there was little they could do. Turning towards us, she ordered, "Let's go."

Relief filled me. I knew I had reached my breaking point, and I had the sneaking suspicion that if we had been stuck in that confined space much longer, I would have broken. I could feel my mask already beginning to fracture, and it wouldn't be pretty.

Following the example of Father Miguel and the lawyer, I automatically stood up. I was bit nervous to see if they would try to detain me anyway. I mean, you hear about abuses all the time, and being a street rat, I didn't trust cops as far as I could throw them. As we left the room, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, and I felt as if I could breathe again.

The concerned glances of the good father finally registered in my tired brain, and I gave him a questioning look.

He explained in his native tongue. "I'm just concerned about you."

I looked over at him. His eyes glowed with concern, and I have to say that it touched me. "I'm fine." I wasn't sure how convincing I was, but I had to try to maintain my strength. Otherwise, I could very well go insane.

As the door to the elevator closed, I happen to hear a voice say, "You need to get to the Robinson's. . ." The door closed before I could hear the rest. _What the hell does that mean! Something has happened. God! Did he get to. . .No. That can't be it! _Panic ceased my heart, and my blood ran cold. As we descended the eleven floors, impatience and terror ate at my soul. _God! What if I'm too late?_

**A/N 2: Yippee! It's finished! Finally! What do you think? Should I keep going?**_  
_


	5. 4b Reflections on a Runaway GOREN'S POV

**  
**

**A/N: **Thank you soo much for your continued support. It means a lot to me. I'm sooooo sorry it's taking me so long to update. Life has been so crazy, and I think I've bitten off more than I can chew. I really don't when I'll be able to update, but don't worry I have an idea of what's in the next chapter.

**Wanted to say that up front:This chapter is OPTIONAL! If you want to read the story ONLY from Sketch's POV, don't read this! Don't worry though (wink), I deliberately wrote it in a way that allows you to skip it without missing any important details.**

**Important NOTE: _It's set just before the last chapter and is from Goren's POV_**, something I had promised to do. I wrote it after some of you expressed an interest in seeing things from his side, and I simply wanted to see if I could do it. Here's what I came up with. Let me know what you think.

Chapter 4b: Reflections on a Runaway (Goren's POV)

**_Earlier in the day  
_ **

Puzzles. Detective Robert Goren had always loved puzzles. Word puzzles. Crosswords. Riddles. Jigsaw puzzles. Rubik cubes. He loved them all, and his ability to put mentally put the pieces together made him good at his job. His active mind thrived on challenges, the harder the better. He hated when he couldn't figure something out; it was a trait that often led to his current position, in the interview room at work with case files spread out in front of him.

He rubbed his burning eyes. God! This case was driving him crazy. They didn't have any witnesses, and the only viable suspect was a runaway named Sketch. He set his head on the back of his hand as his mind turned to contemplate the kid, who at first glance seemed to be only thirteen or fourteen. He had been duly impressed with his obvious intelligence, and their exchange of quotes had both surprised and invigorated him.

He had to wonder what a kid with such potential was doing living on the streets and what he had runaway from in the first place. _Probably one of the successful products of the foster care system_, Bobby thought sadly. It always amazed him that a system meant to help and protect children could be the very thing that screws them up. _The could have been me_, he thought suddenly, as memories of his mother's episodes and his father's neglect flooded his mind.

The smell of coffee suddenly permeated the room, pulling him from his dark thoughts. _Right on time as usual_, he thought, glancing up to meet the amused gaze of his partner, Alexandra Eames.

Warmth spread through him at her mere proximity, easing the tension in his shoulders and waylaying the headache that had begun. Heart thumping hard in his chest, he contemplated the power she had over him and couldn't help but wonder if she felt the same. He immediately shoved that thought to out of his mind, mentally scolding himself for even thinking it. He knew that it was useless to hope that she would think about him that way, and he'd never risk their friendship or their partnership.

With a smile she placed the coffee in front of him and asked, "Don't you ever sleep?"

At the sound of her voice, a small smile graced his lips, "There's a lot to do." He took a sip of his coffee, which was made just the way he liked it. It was amazing to think that they knew each other so well. She knew that he'd be here, trying to figure out all the pieces. He suspected she also knew that there was a good chance that he'd be there all night, a quick look at his watch confirmed it.

She sat down across from him and handed him a pile of papers. "Copies of the Rodriguez case." He cast her a questioning glance. "Found them on the fax machine."

As he read the file, questions began to bombard his mind. "The fax from our anonymous source said that Robinson and Rodriguez were killed by the same person, but it says here that the detective was hit at the back of his head and was shot in the stomach."

"And our vic had four wounds. Stab wounds on the back and stomach, a blow to the head, and his throat was cut," Alex said, following his line of thought.

Bobby leaned his head on the back of his hand again, lost in thought for a moment. At this point, many of his previous partners would have begun to talk about the interrogation or try to draw him out of his silent mode. Not Alex. She knew him. . .understood him. She knew that he needed time to process. . .to think about things that he had just learned. "If our source is right, then our perp changed his MO, which could be a sign of escalation."

Alex walked over and began to read the file over his shoulder. His heart all but stopped at her nearness, but he forced himself to concentrate. "Looks like they found a note at the scene just like in ours. 'Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. Second time's a charm.' Another Johnny note."

She plopped down in the seat next to him. These developments only raised more questions. _Who's Johnny? Is it referring to Jonathan Robinson? If so, why is his name spelled wrong? Is there any connection between Rodriguez and Robinson? If not, who is Johnny? Why is the killer targeting him? And 'Second time'? Second time for what? What does it all mean?_ He had hoped that the file would provide them with answers, but it only seemed to add more pieces to their already complex case.

While he had been lost in his musings, he had failed to notice that Alex had taken the file from him. "Bobby, look." He looked at where she was pointing. It was note detailing that Rodriguez had adopted a teen runaway in 2001, and reading the description of the kid, there was no doubt that it was Sketch. Before he could even say it, his partner said, "I think I need to talk to our good friends in LA."

Bobby glanced at her with relief. He didn't really like to deal with people over the phone. He always liked to do things face-to-face. He could read their expressions, postures, mannerisms, and speech patterns. It was times like this, when Alex showed she knew him so well that he couldn't help but feel relieved to have her back at work. His partnership with Bishop had. . .to put it simply. . .been hell. She hadn't been able to keep up with him, and he had felt himself floundering. It had been a time of pure frustration. At least by the end, they had established a tentative truce, but at this moment, when the connection between himself and Alex was so strong, he could only think, _Thank God, Alex is back!_

A few phone calls later, she handed him another pile of papers, "According to Scott Cameron, Rodriguez's partner, our little runaway is a thief who has a rap sheet under the street name of 'Ghost', and he is a suspect in the Rodriguez murder." She looked at him, pride glinting in her eyes. "I think it's time we went back to church."

**A/N: How did I do? Please review and let me know. **


	6. Broken

**A/N: **I am so sorry for the looong delay but life has been really kicking my butt. Now, that I'm back home, I've had more time to write, but as I started to write the next chapter, I found that I had written myself into a bit of a bind in my last version, so I had to update/revise this chapter. The main changes are at the end, which should hopefully allow the next chapter come more easily. I hope you like it.

**FYI: **No Goren or Eames in it this time.

Chapter 6: Broken

_There's a hole in my shoe_. The random thought came while I stared down at the floor and caught sight of the offending tear at the toe of my shoe. _Kel's gonna have a fit_. My eyes began to water at the thought of the woman who had become like a mother to me, and I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to keep the tears from falling.

It was my fault she was here. . .in this God-forsaken hospital. If only I had made Jonathan listen to me. . .If only I had stopped him before. . .If only I had protected them better. . .If only I had been there, maybe I could've stopped it from happening. If only. . . Images and sensations from what seemed like forever ago flickered through my mind like a bad movie.

The phrase, "_You need to get to the Robinson's_," had echoed loudly in my mind after I first heard it and had fed my panic like a wildfire. Mentally calculating the toll fare, I'd known I would have enough for what to get where I needed. Impatience had clawed at me, its talons making me antsy. Once we'd made it outside, I took off towards the subway station, yelling "Thanks, _Padre_". Father Miguel had called after me, but I'd only one thing in mind.

Sitting in the subway, my hands hadn't been able to stop shaking, as my over-analytical mind whirred with dozens of scenarios, none of them with a happy ending. Finally, I'd taken a book out of my backpack in order to give them something to hold onto, but I'd been too distracted to concentrate.

I rubbed my face, as if that action alone would rub away the memories and act as a "Stop" button to my mental drama. It didn't help; the sights and sounds of the night started to come faster than before.

I had sprinted from the station to the Robinson house, stopping dead at the corner when I saw the flashing lights and noticed the ambulance parked in front. _Maybe it'd be better not to know_. The thought had come unexpectedly, and I almost followed its pull. _Ignorance, after all, is bliss, they say._ I had almost done it too. I'd almost walked away, but the sight of the gurney being brought down the stairs and wheeled towards the awaiting vehicle forced me to gather all my courage and do what I knew I had to. I had gasped at the sight of Kel, lying there so pale and still before she was being lifted into the back.

I had to go with her. . .to know that she'd be alright, so I'd yelled, "I'm coming with you!"

One of the paramedics looked at me and asked, "You family?"

I'd nodded, my eyes frozen upon the place where Kel lay. "We're cousins," I had stated, forcefully pulling my gaze from her. The desperation in my voice had made me wince.

"Hop in," she had said, making me feel relief that was almost palpable.

I'd whispered her name close to her ear, in the hopes that she'd squeeze my hand. The world had suddenly blurred around me. I hadn't paid any attention to what was being said or done around me. I had just sat there, willing Kel to open her eyes and scold me for not eating right. Turning to the nearest person, I'd asked, "What happened?"

"She hit her head. Heard some cops say that they think the kidnapper did it."

A voice over the intercom pulled me from my memories, but the paramedic's words still resounded in my head. I squeezed my eyes shut and brought my head to my hands. _Kidnapper. God! It had finally happened. _My worst nightmare had come true. He had Nicky, and I was sitting here, waiting to find out if the only other family I had was going to survive. Helpless and frustration tangled together, prompting me to get to my feet and restlessly pace.

"Excuse me, is there any word on Kelly Peters?" A woman's voice pulled me from my inner contemplation. There was no mistaking who it was. It was the sound that had once had the power to provide security. Yet, turning around, I only saw the face of a stranger and the last person I wanted to deal with right now.

Cold fury came over me, and as often happens, my brain reverted to its first language: Spanish. "Whatcha doin' here?" I demanded, striding over to where Mrs. Maria Robinson stood. "Get out. You don't belong here."

Surprise and distress crossed the face of the immaculately dressed woman in front of me.

"Kelly is my employee, and she is a friend. I have every right to be here."

"A friend, huh?" I snorted and crossed my arms in front of me. "That must be why she hasn't had a vacation in a year and why she hasn't had a raise in three. Because you're so _friendly_." The contempt I held for this woman came through clearly. "You'd betta be careful throwin' words like that around when talkin' 'bout the help. People talk, ya know."

Her face paled at my insinuation, and shame crossed her face. It was then I knew she realized I'd overheard the conversation she and Jonathan had had about me, when I first showed up in their lives. Jonathan had been the one obsessed with how it would look having little old, class-less me show up, and she hadn't done anything to defend me. Even though I hadn't expected her to, it still burned me to this day. Others' opinions suddenly were the be all and end all of life.

I knew she wouldn't back down. She'd always been stubborn, and I was right. Curiosity and determination mixed to make her eyes shine, and a polite, cultured smile crossed her lips as she said, "The better question is what are you doing here? How do you know Kelly?"

"We're cousins," I stated flatly, unwilling to give her any more than that. She didn't deserve an explanation.

Amazement sparkled in her dark eyes, and her jaw dropped. "How is that possible? We did a thorough background check."

Not caring to enlighten her, I shrugged. "That don't explain what you're doing here."

I held up a hand, preventing her from responding. "Wait, don't tell me! You decided that mixin' with us lowly mortals is okay when one's in the hospital. You sure that's written in _Emily Post_? Wouldn't wantcha to risk your place in society."

I shot her a furious look and noticed a measure of concern in her demeanor. "Or maybe you're really concerned. Well, ain't that touching! 'cause, if you 'n' Jonathan had listened to me in the first place, none of this woulda happened! Where was your concern then!"

Shock and indignation crossed her face, and a feeling of righteousness filled me at the thought that she was getting what she deserved. "You can't speak to me like that!"

"Watch me." Feeling the need to strike out, I continued on my rant. "I tol' you he was out 'n' that he was gonna come for Nicky, but you didn't even care enough to increase security for 'im or the house. All 'cause you were worried what other people would think. You didn't listen, and both Nicky and Kel paid for it."

Uncertainty flickered for a moment before she shook her head, and I knew that she was about to deny my allegation. "Juan. . ."

"Juan's dead," I stated, finality ringing in my voice, "He died the night you turned your back on 'im." I sneered. "What the hell happened to you! I never thought you'd do the same to Nicky, but then I guess I shoulda expected it. You didn't protect one son, so why would you protect the other, eh, _mama_?" I spat the last word like as if it was curse word, and to me, it was.

Tears had begun to fill her eyes, and she raised an arm as if to slap me. I loosely grabbed her wrist, knowing even my rage that a woman like her would press charges against a punk like me for any bruises inflicted, and leaned towards her. "I ain't little any more, _mama_. Growin' up on the streets, I learned to hit back and hit back hard. Think about that before you try to hit me again."

I released her and stepped back. "Now, leave before I call security."

I turned my back to her and waited to hear the click of her heels before slumping into a nearby chair. The sudden rage that had fuelled my verbosity suddenly left me, leaving me only with sorrow.

My diatribe had surprised me. I though I'd gotten over all of that. Yes, it'd been hard to see her again, but I'd long ago accepted the fact that she never loved me. I mean, who could love a freak like me? A "gifted" child with an active mind, who asked pestering questions and who would rather read a book than play a game or watch a movie. I remembered the many nights when I waited for her to come home so that I could share what I'd learned that day, only to realize that she wasn't going to show up. _Abuella _had helped me through those times, but everything changed after she'd died. I'd thought I'd accepted the past. _What's wrong with me?_

"Who's here for Kelly Peters?"

I stood up eagerly and faced the doctor in her green scrubs. She gave me a tired but stoic look. "There's some swelling near her brain, and she's in a coma. We'll keep a close eye on her over the next twenty-four hours, but there really isn't much we can do until she wakes up."

_A coma?_ I clenched my arms tight around me. "What about. . ." I choked on the word, wet my lips and tried again, ". . .brain damage?"

Her stoic face didn't change. "We really won't know more until the swelling goes down."

I swallowed hard and nodded. "Can I see her?"

"Of course." I followed the doctor back to Kelly's room. "Here she is."

"Thanks," I whispered, as I took a cautious step past her to enter a room that greeted its visitors with the steady _beep, beep, beep_ of the heart monitor. The door swung shut behind her and I was left alone with the beeping of the machines.

"God, Kel," I whispered, taking her cool hand in mine, "I'm sorry." Her head was wrapped, and her face was pale. She looked peaceful, but her stillness almost made it seem like it was different person. A part of me wanted to scream, _No! That's not her! _But even without her ever-present smile, I knew it was. Seeing her like that. . .it was just so wrong!

Guilt clawed away at my soul. I was the reason she was there. I was the reason Nicky was gone. I was the reason Jonathan and Danny were dead. I was the one. It just didn't seem right for me to be there, alive and well, when they and others had been hurt in some way or another. Any censure or blame in her eyes would reduce me to nothing. Without her and Nicky, I would've been alone. Again. _Damn! How selfish can you be?_ My mental voice chided._ She's in a coma and all you can think about is YOU! No wonder you don't have any one left. No wonder they all leave. You deserve this. _

I knew it was true, and I didn't have the energy to fight it anymore. _You're pathetic! _The voice screamed. Clenching my fist around the St. Joseph's medal that had dangled from my neck for as long as I could remember, I bowed my head and proceeded to silently intone the prayer my _abuella_, my grandmother, had drilled into me during the hard times. _Gracious St. Joseph, protect me and my family from all evil as you did the Holy Family. Kindly keep us ever united in the love of Christ, ever fervent in the imitation of the virtue of our Blessed Lady, your sinless spouse, and always faithful in devotion to you. Amen._

It was the mantra I'd heard my grandmother say on those nights when my mother would disappear, something that happened with regular frequency. I could always tell when she'd be saying it in her head cuz she'd grab her rosary and stare at the portrait of St. Joseph, the patron saint of families, on the wall as if he was the only hope for any of us. Once in the group homes and on the street, it'd be my way to feel connected to her and to feel grounded once again.

Now, I as intoned the familiar words, a calm washed through me as it often did. I knew this protection prayer couldn't help me anymore, but maybe, it could help what's left of my family. . .perhaps it could help Kel or Nicky. They were, after all, innocent in this. It didn't matter that I was praying to something I didn't really believe in anymore. After all, what kind of God lets shit like this happen? Kel never hurt anybody. Nicky sure as hell didn't either, and Danny had devoted his life to helping other people. Hell, he even took a chance on me, so what kind of loving, all-knowing God would let harm come to them? None of that mattered. Peace and security was what I craved, and it was what I needed. Who knew it could come from a set of made-up words to a made-up Saint and could be held in the size of a coin-sized piece of medal?

It took me a moment for the feeling of hot wetness on my cheeks to register in my brain, and I was startled to realize that I'd finally lost the battle against the tears that had threatened earlier. I hadn't cried since Danny's funeral two years ago, and even then, it had been in the private of my own room. Yet, there I was, tough street kid that I was, tears rolling down my face in a hospital room that had glass windows and its blinds wide open. I mean, anyone could see me, but I didn't care. I couldn't handle it anymore. Everything had been leading to this. The interrogation. The confrontation. Finding out about Nicky and Kel. My mask had finally broken, and I wasn't sure that I'd ever be able to repair it.

**What do you think? Please review and let me know. **


End file.
